“…later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease.”

Keats “ Ode to  Autumn” must have been inspired by a day like today. Sunshine has spun out so many  flowers, that it seems impossible cold weather will ever destroy them and frost crisp them: but it will.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease…

 

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A Day to Fly.

Lying on my back watching the sky, I saw long white filaments appear from high up and drift on by in the clear blue air. All the swifts, swallows and even martins have long gone, but some thing was taking advantage of the autumn sunshine : spiders.

Spiders,  like this garden beauty, stick their fat abdomens up to the sky from trees and twigs and spin out long threads of gossamer, which contain hundreds of tiny spiders, and cast them adrift to the wind.  The gossamer can carry the young spiders for hundreds of miles away across land or water . They can skim on salt or fresh water and Darwin himself found them on his ship miles from any land.

Many will perish, but many will survive and colonise huge distances.

What daring – what freedom.  What a day to fly!

 

Robin’s Bread

Spindle berries are my favourite fruit of the autumn. From inconspicuous little green flowers in the spring, the oddest, brightest and most extravagant seeds grow.

The fruitcase in an astounding lipstick vibrant pink and when ripe they open to display a fluorescent orange seed. Most plants make do with dry seeds in a papery dead case,  but the spindle pouts its glory in colours that seem almost artificial and unnatural in their unexpected vibrancy.

The wood is tough and sharp and was used to making spinning spindles, knitting needles and even toothpicks. Folk law says when used to make a meat skewer, the wood will keep all meat impaled upon it sweet.

In Germany it is called Rotkehlchenbrot or Robin’s Bread and from watching the bush in my garden I understand why . The robins adore the orange fruit and hang upside down on the long branches to pull them out from the pink lips. Black birds and black caps will eat them too and the poisonous seed passes harmlessly through their digestive tracts to be flown to new hedgerow places, where they take root and eventually make more bread for the hungry robins!

 

 

Autumn Equinox.

Today the sky was full of birds. Hundreds and hundreds of swallows passed over the garden on their long journey south.

Our village is on a major migration route in the autumn and the spring.  Serious birders set up telescopes on the field below the church and scan the skies as all types of birds leaving the north are funnelled by the river valley and the first folds of the Jura Mountains into columns high over head. The garden is under this line and my husband spots honey buzzards, bee eaters, ospreys, cranes, storks and even a vulture from the comfort of the front porch.

Today no binoculars were needed to see the birds . At times they streamed by, at other times they wove and stitched the air as they caught insects above the apple trees and the willow and all the untidy greenery of an autumn garden . Then the sky was clear and they seemed to pause,  come back and feed again, criss crossing the blue sky a thousand times and counting them became an utter impossibility. The air was all slicing wings, tail ribbons and unceasing movement and strangely all of it was completely silent. No twittering, just determined hunting and then moving on: the season has changed.

 

For the next spring.

The virtue of being an untidy gardener is that most of my flowers get to set seed. The down side is a shabby September garden!

So this year I decided to share seeds with friends at work. I filled seven bowls with seeds collected from the garden and the drive. All of them are seeds I know will germinate and make good plants and it was a great pleasure to feel their various textures between my fingers and have friends turn them over and ask questions about the colours and perfumes of the plants they will make.

 

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22.

The Seed-shop
By Muriel Stuart

HERE in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone and shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry—
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

Dead that shall quicken at the voice of spring,
Sleepers to wake beneath June’s tempest kiss;
Though birds pass over, unremembering,
And no bee find here roses that were his.

In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;
A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust
That shall drink deeply at a century’s streams;
These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

Here in their safe and simple house of death,
Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;
Here I can stir a garden with my breath,
And in my hand a forest lies asleep.

 

I collected masses of wild marjoram, a heaped bowl of tiny yarrow, a pinch of pale wall flower seeds, a spiked ball of wild agrimony, a sliver of shining columbine seeds, a roll of tough everlasting pea seeds and a sliding flurry of flat honesty seeds.

I hope they have all gone to good homes and will flourish in new gardens.

 

 

 

 

Apple picking.

“….. and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: ….”.

“After Apple Picking”  by Robert Frost.

Frost’s famous poem deals with the impossibility of doing everything, of caring for everything that needs our care. It is the quintessential poem of the sensitive in an insensitivity world.

I think after my exceptionally modest apple harvest, from my very small tree, after a famously bad frost would have inspired something very different. Maybe something about the triumph of hope over reality and the pleasure of saving a couple of apples before the slugs get them!

Pixie and the Bat Box

The good thing about the shortening days is that I can listen to the bats coming home to roost from the comfort of my bed. Before the sun gets up,  I can listen to the clicks and whistles of the bats as they make their last hunting swoops in the gloom, before folding their wings into the corner of the eves to sleep the day away in peace.

Pixie the cat is perplexed by this. She ignores the back ground hiss of the box, but when it picks up and amplifies the sound of a bat, she pats the box, pulls back her ears and meowls!

As the sky lightens and the chuckling of the blackbirds over take the sounds of the night, she relaxes, jumps off the bedroom window sill and vocally demands to be let out again, to take her place as undisputed queen of the day time garden!

Tasty Titans.

Normally the bathroom scales provoke sighs of irritation when I use them and occasional vows to eat less chocolate, but this morning they elicited whoops of delight.

No, I have not been on a diet and I have not lost weight.  The whoop was in admiration for the weight of my first pumpkin of the season!

As I have lost one pumpkin to mould I thought it was time to bring the rest in and put them on the sunny back step to colour up.  So, I cut my first pumpkin:  bent down to pick it up and could hardly move it as it was so heavy!  This was a wonderful surprise, as this is a new variety that I grew from seed for the first time this year and I was unsure how they would turn out.  I need not have worried!  The plants rampaged across the lawn and six flowers set seed.  One was lost to slugs and mould and then there were five and they grew and grew in the sunshine and the rain.

I have grown larger pumpkins, but none so heavy.

I hauled one on to our rickety bathroom scales and these beauties average a magnificent 10 kilos  each!

If they taste as good as they look, I will be in pumpkin soup, risotto, and roast pumpkin all winter long.

Who said September is shabby?

Shabby September

After a riotous summer my garden is looking decidedly shabby. I like to think it is shabby chic, but it really just a bit worn out and yellowing around the edges.

My green beans look on the verge of collapse, but every other day produce another handful of tastey beans. There are tiny cauliflowers hiding amongst the woody beetroots, a few gherkin cucumbers are lurking in the weeds and some monster pumpkins are showing a tease of orange beneath the mildewed leaves. Nothing is as plump and fresh as it was, but my seemingly exhausted garden just keeps giving!